


Sympathy for the Devil

by yggsassil



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e07 Yakimono, actually the willton is implied too, the fuck are tags, the willana is implied, wrote it directly after yakimono aired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1700927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yggsassil/pseuds/yggsassil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“May I use your shower, please?” Chilton is desperate and his voice is panicky. Why he’d come to Will, of all people, is uncertain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sympathy for the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote it directly after Yakimono aired; maybe 30 minutes after? Might technically count as a fixfic, I have no idea. I intended for it to be part of a series (all of whose titles would be an idiom containing the word 'devil' in some fashion) but eh.

“I have the same profile as Hannibal Lecter,” Chilton says nervously, shoving his bloody clothes into a knapsack he’d brought along. “Same medical and psychological background.” He keeps  _looking_ at Will, as if desperate for his former patient to believe him. Will can sympathize, if only slightly. After all, just days earlier Frederick had been accusing him of  _being_ Hannibal Lecter. “We are  _both_ doctors of note in our field,” Will pointedly does not mention Frederick’s terrible reputation vs. Hannibal’s glowing one. “I have to leave the country. I  _am_ leaving the country.” “No, if you run you’ll look guilty.” Frederick scoffs. “You did not run and you looked plenty guilty. Abel Gideon was  _half-eaten_ in my guest room. I have  _corpses_ on my property.  _You_ just threw up an ear.” Will wonders to himself how Frederick’s vegetarianism plays into all of this.

“There’s an APB on you right now—they’ve cancelled credit cards, they’re tracing your phone—” Will’s trying to talk some sense into Frederick, although God only knows why. It’s not working. “I have cash and I tossed my phone,” Frederick says distractedly as he he slips into his third layer of clothing. Will wonders to himself once more why Frederick would come to him. They aren’t exactly on the best of terms (although it’s _much_ better than Will and Hannibal). “Jack Crawford thinks I killed two agents—three agents. You know what happens to people who do that?” They get electrocuted? “Shoot on sight.” Close enough.

“I’m going to _prove_ Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will’s voice wavers only slightly. Frederick, however, seems convinced of Will’s conviction. “I know you will; and when you do, I will read about it from a secure location, and I will reintroduce myself to society at that time—” Will’s multitude of hounds start barking from outside his home; Frederick’s eyes widen and he carefully looks out the window. Outside a small car approaches. “Will…what have you done?” Will wonders if Frederick would attack him if he said the wrong thing; Frederick is in a fragile state right now. “I called Alana.” He’d contemplated calling Jack, actually, but Jack is FBI; Jack is volatile, angry, rash, and prone to jumping to conclusions. Then again Alana is too. If he’d had the option he’d have called Beverly, because Beverly is trustworthy…but it’s too late for that now.

Frederick starts stuttering, and draws the gun from the holster by his hip. Will is almost _bemused_ by him. Frederick’s not a killer, he tells him. He turns from the gun pointed at his back to answer the door. Alana is displeased. _More_ than displeased—she is downright furious. It occurs to Will at that moment that this could be a very, _very_ bad idea. She is sleeping with Hannibal, after all—his, for lack of a better word, mortal enemy (it sounds less stupid than “arch-nemesis”). She could’ve told Hannibal ahead of time, or told _Jack,_ God forbid. In that small car could be waiting the entirety of the FBI ready to, well, shoot on sight. But Will has faith in her (what little remains). “Will,” Alana glares at him, “what the _fuck_ are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking he’s innocent, and it’s the Chesapeake Ripper—” “Oh, _Hannibal_ you mean?” “—jerking us around again.” Bring up Hannibal would only get them into a fight (and possibly bring the entirety of the FBI up to Wolf Trap as some act of bitterness; as much faith as he has in her, he’s become prone to paranoia). Alana’s mouth thins; he’s stepping on thin ice, and he knows it. One wrong move…Winston barks and comes to his side, wagging his tail happily. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye; her grimace softens just slightly. “Will…I’m going to trust you on this. Not that it has _anything_ to do with Hannibal, but that…I don’t know.” She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. A migraine, probably. “I’m going to trust you know what you’re doing.”

“I do, Alana.”

\-- 

Thankfully, she’d listened to his request to bring an ordinary, nondescript car. Something much less flashy than Frederick’s bright red one. Something Frederick can get away in, maybe drive to Canada or something. The border is a fair ways away, but they’re in the middle of nowhere—and Alana brought fake IDs, too (which he is also grateful for). Frederick stops halfway between the car and Will’s house, his knapsack slung over his shoulder. He turns to Will—the shadows under his eyes have only worsened since this all began.

“…what?”

Frederick thins his lips (just like Alana, he thinks). “You could come with me.”

“Why the _hell_ would I want to do that?” it’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself. It’s true, though; he and Chilton are…not on the best of terms. Not to mention, he still has to expose Hannibal as the Chesapeake Ripper (Alana is inside the house feeding the dogs; she can’t hear him…he hopes). Frederick rolls his eyes—which, for him, is not all that unusual. Frederick went through a series of similar expressions those first few weeks, as if listening to Will repeatedly state his innocence was the most exasperating and ridiculous thing. At least this time Frederick isn’t just ignoring him.

Frederick turns to face him completely. “Do you _seriously_ think you’re going to expose him?” Will grimaces and squeezes his biceps as an act of self-defense; insecurity. But he has a point—a point Will doesn’t care to admit. Hannibal is dashing, popular, composed (except when Will has a gun to his head; Will will relish his expression for years), and has everyone wrapped around his finger. Hell, it’s entirely possible that everything Will is doing was _planned_ by Hannibal somehow. Of course, it’s also entirely possible that Will is totally paranoid and _vastly_ overestimating Hannibal’s cunning, but you can never be too careful. Hannibal _did_ frame him for murder (and get away with it, nearly).

Will grimaces. “That doesn’t mean I’d want to go with _you.”_ ‘Like I said,’ Will thinks to himself, ‘if you run you’ll look guilty. Even if you _have_ been proven not guilty. It’s all about perception.’ The door opens and shuts behind him; apparently Alana has had enough of caring for the dogs (and ignoring his presence). She’s tense—tenser than even when she arrived here. Will wants to offer her one of his coats, but he already knows she’ll say no. It’s too late for that, anyways. “What are you going to do, Will.” She specifically avoids addressing Chilton; he scoffs and rolls his eyes. Will shrugs; he already knows what he wants to do, and he imagines she does too, but saying it aloud would only invite trouble. Thin ice, Will. Thin ice.

“I heard…Dr. Chilton…mentioning you coming with him.” She isn’t actually suggesting— “I think it’s a good idea.” Will looks at her like she’s completely lost her mind (which, considering she thought he was a serial killer just a few days ago, is not too off the mark). “You do know that for five weeks he performed probably-illegal experiments on me in the name of psychiatry, right?” he blurts out; Frederick scowls deeply. What the hell makes her think he’d want to spend one _moment_ with Frederick (ignoring that Frederick came to _him_ for protection), let alone an hours-long car drive?

“He came to _you,_ didn’t he? And you helped him.” She puts her hand on her hips and for just a moment it’s like looking at the old Alana. “You could use a break, Will…we all could.” There’s a flash of something in her eye—sympathy, pity, maybe both. ‘Sympathy for the devil’ he thinks to himself. _Wrong devil._


End file.
